


All the Way Back to Berlin

by angelinthecity



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Berlin (City), Boys Kissing, M/M, Nostalgia, foot kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-10-26 06:34:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17740709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelinthecity/pseuds/angelinthecity
Summary: A scene from one evening at Berlinale 2017. Inspired by one nostalgic, deleted IG story of a pair of boots on the night of the 2019 BAFTAs.





	All the Way Back to Berlin

**Author's Note:**

> Entirely fictional.

**Late one evening in Berlin, February 2017**

 

“Which floor are you on?”

“Ninth.”

“Oh good, me too,” Armie says and presses the button “9” in the elevator. “So are you getting the hang of this circus already?”

“I wish,” Timmy laughs. “Like Sundance was such a shock to the system, for real. And I thought maybe it was just because it was the first one, but nope. Not any easier here, man. I’m so grateful you’re here, though.”

“I’m happy you’re here, too. I have to say, press isn’t my favorite part of this job but this was actually fun. And Sundance, too. I’ve never really had a friend to do these with before.”

“A friend?” Timmy asks.

“Yeah, of course we’re friends,” Armie smiles. 

Timmy knows Armie is sincere and means well, so he doesn’t say that hearing that actually stings a little.

Because of course they are friends, having become more and more so after the filming ended. Which was unusual for him. He always tried to keep in touch with people after shoots wrapped, but Armie was the first one with whom that had actually happened. And kept happening.

So why would he be sad about Armie saying so?

When Timmy doesn’t say anything, Armie feels compelled to continue: “Or do you think of me as just someone you shot a film with? And after the press is over you’re going to ditch me, Chalamet?”

He says it jokingly, nudges Timmy even, to hide his own fear over the fact that maybe that’s true. Armie knows how unlikely it is to find someone that you truly click with on a film set, but maybe Timmy with his shorter experience span thinks this is normal.

“No, that’s totally not what I– Oh, look, this is our floor.”

They step out and both turn left.

“Your room is this way, too?”

“Yeah, 901.”

“Mine’s 902. I guess you’re just across from me, then.”

They walk in silence to their rooms at the end of the hallway, and Timmy is about to slip in the key card when he turns around instead.

“I’m not going to ditch you. I keep wondering why you keep wanting to hang out with me, though. I’m not expecting it to last, don’t worry. I know how things work.”

His resigned voice makes Armie turn around too. He crosses his arms over his chest.

“What things?”

Timmy leans back, shoulders touching his door. “Things. Like you immerse yourself in a character and grow close to your co-stars because you’re in your character’s skin, but then you move on to the next and forget all that.”

“Is that why you… Do you still feel like Elio? You’ve done other stuff after last summer.”

“I know, but it kind of came back in Sundance, when we saw the film and had to talk about everything with the press and all. Never mind, it’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” Armie sighs. “Come on, let’s not discuss this in the hallway.”

Armie opens the door to his room and gestures Timmy to get inside. Timmy pushes himself off the door and walks in.

 

 

Timmy sits on the pale caramel couch, takes off his suede jacket and folds it gingerly on the couch next to him. He’s so not used to wearing these expensive things and is constantly afraid of ruining them somehow.

Armie paces the room, not knowing whether he should just concentrate on Timmy’s issue or say something himself, too. He thinks he knows what Timmy’s feeling, because he’s feeling it too. The problem is, he’s feeling more than just nostalgia. He’s feeling things he shouldn’t. Really, really shouldn’t. And Timmy might just mean that he misses the easy atmosphere they had in Italy, amidst the busy chaotic urban life he was now experiencing back home.

For Armie it’s not just that. There’s something he can’t quite put his finger on, or dare to. Something that made him keep stealing glances at Timmy all evening, only to catch him already looking. So it can’t be just him feeling things on his own, can it? Doesn’t chemistry need two participants; electricity two terminals for it to flow?

Armie decides to speak. One more thing he picked up from shooting the film, he thinks sarcastically.

“It came back to me, too. Oliver.”

“It did?” Timmy lifts his eyes. Armie stands in front of him, looking distraught and nostalgic at the same time.

“It’s never really happened before, and it was actually difficult to be back home again after Sundance. Like I got a little glimpse of what it used to be with you and Luca, and then – nothing again.” _Good, he slipped Luca’s name in there, too, just in case he needs to backtrack this later._

“And now? Here?” Timmy asks.

“And now it’s great again. But also difficult, because I know what it’ll be like to go home again. And home’s great, but…”

“I know,” Timmy interrupts him. “These three weeks at home were maybe even worse than the time after I returned from Italy.”

“I think we need something stronger than that wine we had at dinner to continue this conversation.” Armie goes to peruse the minibar in his suite. “You want anything?”

“Sure. What do you got?”

“They have these minibottles, whiskey, brandy, vodka…”

“I’ll have the vodka. You probably want the whiskey anyway.”

“Touché.”

“I remember everything.”

“Ha,” Armie lets out a little laugh when he twists the tiny vodka bottle open and hands it to Timmy. “There you go.”

“Thanks.”

Armie promptly swigs down his whiskey and asks: “Do you really, though? Remember everything?”

“Uh-huh.”

The vodka makes its way down Timmy’s system smoothly and he realizes he’s not sure what they are talking about anymore.

“No wait, what do you mean?”

“Like, do you remember. Everything. That happened. I mean, if you feel like pieces of Elio are with you again.” Armie knows he rambles but can’t make himself stop. “Like how it smelled in the musty attic. Or in the backyard by the trees. Or the splinters we got from sitting on that wooden floor, when Luca made us squeeze into that narrow hallway.”

“How could I forget,” Timmy says softly. “It’s the first time you kissed my foot.”

He immediately realizes his mistake. Armie doesn’t know how many times he’s imagined it since, so it sounds odd to call it the first when it hadn’t happened since. Not in reality.

“I mean, not the first. The only. Not that it matters.” He then realizes it still sounds weird and he’d rather not explain, so he moves to get up. “I’m kinda tired, so I’m just going to…”

Armie stops him and Timmy slumps back on the couch. Armie knows that when Timmy starts to babble, the truth is usually hidden between the words.

“Were you hoping there’d be a second time?” he asks, now kneeling at Timmy’s feet.

Timmy’s mouth opens and his tongue slides between his teeth, so Armie thinks he’s already got his answer, but he wants to make sure.

“Just tell me to stop.”

One of his hands reaches all around Timmy’s ankle and the other starts unlacing his shiny boot. He smiles to himself thinking how excitedly Timmy had paraded in them earlier in the evening when they had met up.

Timmy is speechless, worried that any sound from him, one wrong movement, would make Armie stop. The boot comes off, then his sock. Timmy smiles when Armie finally gently takes his bare foot in his hands and lifts it to place a gently kiss on top of it.

“Happy now?”

Timmy keeps smiling and nods.

“Anything else you were hoping there’d be a second time of?”

This had all still been on the quirky, gentle side of things, but the look they exchange after that question electrifies the mood.

“I don’t know what you want me to tell you,” Timmy says gingerly. He knows there must be a reason Armie is asking, but can’t believe it would be the one he’s hoping for.

“Start with the truth.”

Armie’s eyes plead with him, plead with him to say it first so that he can justify this to himself later. _He was only doing what Timmy was asking. He didn’t make the first move._

“Yes.”

The resulting tension is more than Timmy can handle, so in an attempt to make light of it, he surges up and tackles Armie onto the bed.

“Like for example this!” he laughs, using the element of surprise to successfully wrestle Armie onto his back before he catches on to what’s happening.

“Well, this is new, I never used to win any of our wrestling matches,” Timmy smiles down at him smugly.

“You’re not winning one now either,” Armie announces and easily rolls them over, Timmy now underneath him, panting. He’s holding Timmy’s hands hostage, pressing them into the pillow above his head when he asks: “This is really what you wanted to do again? Wrestle?”

Timmy looks at him, knowing he wouldn’t really need to say anything because Armie’s lips are already getting closer to his, but he does anyway.

“No.”

Timmy relaxes against the bed when Armie’s mouth touches his, first gently on his lips but when he feels how eagerly Timmy responds, he goes deeper.

“Your tongue tastes like whiskey,” Timmy mumbles.

“Your tongue tastes like Italy,” Armie replies and goes in for a second round before pulling off and leaning his forehead against Timmy’s.

“This is not how our wrestling matches used to end, either,” Timmy points out and reaches upwards to press one more kiss on Armie’s mouth.

“I figured it might be good to change it up,” Armie chuckles.

“Man, you really kissed me on the mouth after you just kissed my foot that had been in the boots all day.”

“I’m sick that way.”

“I wish everyone was as sick as you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“You’re right. Maybe I only need you.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Written quickly to get this out of my system, so please excuse anything that I might have caught had I been a more patient proofreader. I hope you enjoyed! :)


End file.
